


tonight got me thinking about it all

by futuresoon



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: The singer croons something about money and other women. Akira looks at Goro and thinks about cheesy pickup lines.Hey babe, those clothes look nice. They’d look even better on my floor.(Seven years later, they're at a jazz lounge, and Akira's been waiting too long.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 25
Kudos: 476





	tonight got me thinking about it all

**Author's Note:**

> For Nova. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from "No More What Ifs".

Akira read somewhere that Kichijoji has more jazz clubs than any other area of Tokyo. In that sense, Jazz Jin isn’t particularly special; there only being a singer one day of the week is a bit of a drawback, really. So truth be told, its greatest value to him is purely sentimental. Through the six (non-contiguous) years he’s lived in Tokyo, it’s acquired a slew of memories, some happy, some melancholy, all tinted with nostalgia. He really does like it there.

But sometimes even if you have a favorite cozy restaurant it can be fun to try a ritzier one, which is why he’s here now, in an intensely atmospheric jazz lounge with booth seating, a full band playing something soulful in the background, and an actual alcoholic drink in front of him.

Besides, Sojiro’s paying for it. _How_ Sojiro’s paying for it, Akira’s not sure; from the look of this place it must be pretty pricey to reserve the entire lounge for an evening, but Sojiro had only muttered something about old friends and pulling strings, so it must not’ve been that bad.

It’d seemed like a fun idea, initially; ensuring there’d be plenty of room for the whole group, and no one to eavesdrop on any of the more top-secret potential conversation topics, and just getting to spend a nice evening with everybody. He’d been looking forward to it.

So of course this morning almost everybody canceled.

The excuses ranged from pretty believable (Futaba’s “sudden work deadline”, Yusuke’s “unstoppable burst of inspiration”) to not remotely believable (Morgana’s “Futaba needs emotional support”, Ryuji’s “great-uncle’s funeral”), so Akira has a pretty good guess _why_ nobody except Goro could make it. And he’s not mad, really. They’re just trying to be helpful.

They’ve done some variation on it twice a year for the last three years, he’s pretty used to it at this point.

(“It’ll happen when it happens,” he told a pouting Ann after the first time. “If it happens. I’m fine if it doesn’t. Really.”

And two years later she said, “Oh my god are you still saying that, you masochistically selfless disaster of a man,” which seems a little unfair.)

On the adjacent side of the table, Goro takes a sip of his scotch and raises his eyebrows. “They really pull out all the stops at this place, don’t they,” he says. “If memory serves, Shido had a bottle of this. He liked to brag about having only the finest liquor at his disposal. I doubt he knew anything about it beyond the price tag.”

Years have mellowed out the sourness that sits in the back of Akira’s throat whenever Goro casually throws out a reminder of old ordeals, even one as minor as underage drinking. Instead, he takes a sip of his bright pink-and-purple cocktail and says, “Like there’s anything worth knowing about a drink that tastes like a tire fire.”

“It’s _refined,”_ Goro says. Akira loves him immensely.

Years have mellowed out Goro, too, to some extent. 

He was always attractive, but in that first year in Tokyo Akira could tell he played it up for the public eye that watched him like a hawk, maintained clear skin and perfect hair and a charming smile because if he wasn’t always, always on then interest would wane and his plans would falter. But now he only puts in the effort if he wants to. Some days he shows up in jeans and a sweatshirt with undisguised dark circles under his eyes from pulling an all-nighter, and doesn’t seem bothered by it.

Apparently tonight he wanted to.

His hair’s up, pulled back into a short ponytail with a small braid tucked into each side. He’s wearing a mostly black ensemble, vest, button-up, and slacks, accented with a white tie Akira’s not sure he’s seen him wear before. Akira’s inclined to think Goro looks good in anything, but if Akira’d seen him like this seven years ago he probably would’ve short-circuited on the spot. As it stands, he just gets to enjoy it. It’s normal to keep looking at the person you’re talking to, right? Right.

They didn’t _plan_ to coordinate. It just sort of happened that Akira ended up wearing mostly the same look, with a deep red shirt and tie under the black vest. Akira knows his aesthetic, okay, and if a color scheme is good enough for the representation of his soul it’s good enough for him. Maybe that was sort of Goro’s reasoning too, albeit in a subtler way than a shirt of zebra stripes.

Akira doesn’t usually do much with his hair, partly because not a whole lot _can_ be done with it without half a gallon of hair gel, but he found an only partially empty bottle in the back of his closet and, after some thought, ended up smoothing back some of the right side, removing the partial cover over his eye. He hasn’t worn glasses in years anyway, having a bare face doesn’t feel weird anymore.

The singer croons something about money and other women. Akira looks at Goro and thinks about cheesy pickup lines. _Hey babe, those clothes look nice. They’d look even better on my floor._

“The band here is quite good,” Goro says, casting his gaze over at the stage. Several musicians in smart black clothing and a female singer in a slinky blue dress perform with no apparent concern for the size of their audience. “I hate to disparage Jazz Jin, but…”

“Jazz Jin is cheaper and easier to get a table at,” Akira says with a wry smile.

“True, plus there’s the nostalgia factor,” Goro admits. “But I don’t think I’ll be telling Muhen about this evening any time soon.”

Akira takes another sip of his cocktail. Fruity, tangy-sweet, and probably with a higher alcohol content than Goro’s scotch. The cold sweetness of it tingles on his tongue. 

“How’s your progress with the Murakami family?” Akira asks.

Goro gives a heavy sigh. Takes another sip of scotch.

“…not well, huh,” Akira says diplomatically.

“I’m doing a home visit tomorrow, at least,” Goro says. “The neighbor’s complaint was enough to draw attention back to the case, so I’ve got an in there. But Miyamoto’s still trying to get me to drop it. _Lost cause,_ my ass, he just can’t be bothered to put the work in.”

Akira tries not to smile. It still hasn’t gotten old, seeing Goro’s ire directed towards mundane targets. 

Although there’s the tradeoff, isn’t there; ordinary problems must be dealt with by ordinary means, no grand battles or enemies you can defeat just by hitting them enough. In some ways, that year was easier. 

In a lot of ways, it wasn’t. Mundanity has its frustrations, but it’s been seven years since the last time Goro died, and Akira’s not looking for a repeat.

“You’ll get it done,” Akira says. “You always figure something out.”

Goro raises an eyebrow. “Your confidence is inspiring,” he says. “Did you really want to talk about work troubles on your birthday?”

Akira gives a languid shrug. “Birthdays don’t mean a lot once you’re old enough to drink,” he says. “There’s nothing special about 24, anyway.”

“Surviving another year means at least a little,” Goro says.

Akira raises his glass, smiling slightly. “To surviving another year, then,” he says.

“To surviving another year.” Goro raises his glass too, and they drink together in an impromptu toast.

Three years ago, Goro told Akira that he used to expect he wouldn’t make it to 19. Now he’s 25. Maybe ‘another year’ does mean something, to him.

“How’s school going, then?” Goro asks. “Still working on that paper?”

Akira grimaces. “Psychopathology’s a really interesting class, but the teacher could stand to ease down a little on the coursework.”

“If you ever need an interview subject, I could give you a hand,” Goro says drily.

The corner of Akira’s mouth twitches. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

It’s mostly a joke, Akira knows. It’s a good thing that Goro can joke about this sort of thing now. 

“Serious question time,” Akira says.

Goro raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” he says.

“Do you miss the old days any?” Akira traces the condensation on his glass. “Does the real world feel like enough?”

Goro takes a slightly larger drink of his scotch before setting the glass back on the table. He purses his lips. “Hm. Well. I can’t say I think I was _better off_ back then, but…there really was nothing else like it, was there.” His voice takes a melancholy shade. “It’s been seven years, and I still can’t forget the feeling of magic flowing through me. The exhilaration of battle. The way I could look around a crowded room and think, I know something none of you do, I have secrets that could tear you apart. The feeling of being _special_ in a way no one else in the world was. And at the end of it, the feeling of…being a part of something, I suppose, though I would never have admitted to it at the time.”

“Neither of us will ever be as important now as we were then,” Akira says quietly.

“Indeed,” Goro says. “And it’s okay to miss that, I think. We can go on and on about different scales and the true value of human life, but it is an undeniable fact that our lives used to be fantastical, and now are not. Of course we’d miss it.”

Akira exhales. “Didn’t mean to bring the mood down, sorry,” he says.

Goro shakes his head. “No, it’s a fair question,” he says. “I suspect all the others think about it from time to time, too. If I may ask, what brought it to mind now?”

Akira hesitates. “I’m…not sure,” he admits. “I guess being at a jazz club with you just brings back memories.”

 _“That’s_ certainly true,” Goro says, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t think it’s really possible to untangle the good memories from the bad ones, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

Akira stares at the bright candy colors of his cocktail and remembers a late January evening in Jazz Jin, Goro saying something derisive about Akira’s taste in company but staying anyway, the old conversational patterns taking new turns. It’d been a wonderful reprieve from the rest of the world, and he’d asked Goro back the next night, and the next. 

And the night after that was February 1st, and when they left the club Akira looked at Goro and wondered what he would say if Akira asked him to come back to Leblanc.

But he didn’t ask.

He spent the next three years wishing he had.

The world is full of dramatic stories about tragic love, how overwhelming the pain of it can be. The first time Akira lost Goro, it felt like a physical blow; it took him days to improve enough to send the calling card, and in the fight against Shido he’d maybe been a little more aggressive than usual, a little less cool and composed. But that only lasted a few weeks before Goro returned, and then--well, that was a rough time for its own reasons, but he’d been buoyed by silly fantasies of playing the devoted spouse waiting for their beloved to return from prison, their patience and loyalty finally rewarded when they can sweep their loved one into their arms once more.

It turned out waiting was horrible, actually, especially when you had no reason to think they could come back in the first place.

Three years. It felt less like being the devoted spouse and more like being the tragically loyal Buchiko.

And then--

Well, it’s been four years since the ensuing theatrics, and the pain of tragic love settled into the feeling of a warm bath, comforting and calming. Not perfect, no, and still he--but for the most part, the bath is enough. It’s more than he thought he’d have. If it’s all he ever gets, he’ll survive.

(“I don’t want to pressure him,” he told Morgana a couple years ago. “He’s been through a lot, I don’t want to try to start something he’s not ready for.”

“You realize that those statements could very easily be applied to what he thinks about _you,”_ Morgana pointed out.

Akira didn’t really have a good response to that.)

He takes another drink of his dwindling cocktail. 

“It’s a bit early, but I may as well give this to you now,” Goro says, picking up a thin, rectangular package he brought in with him. “I know you have this whole _thing_ about not wanting anyone to even slightly inconvenience themselves for your sake, so if it makes you feel any better, it was on sale.”

It does make him feel better. He won’t admit that, though. 

Akira takes the package from Goro. The wrapping is plain butcher’s paper, and it feels heavy, the object inside shifting with the movement. He rips off the paper, pulls back the top of the cardboard box inside, and sees: a pitch-black dagger, maybe obsidian, intricate red-tinted filigree on the hilt. It’s a little hard to see in the club’s low lighting, but if he squints, he can make out the symbol of an ace near the bottom.

It looks wickedly sharp.

It’s beautiful.

It also _definitely_ isn’t the kind of thing you can just casually find at the mall, so Akira says, “On sale, huh?”

“The customization was, yes,” Goro says airily.

Instincts aside, he’s not going to be rude about what’s probably one of the nicest gifts he’s ever been given. He holds it up to the light to get a better look and says, “Well, it’s amazing, thank you,” instead of something very normal like _hey why don’t we go back to my place so you can use this on me but like in a sexy way._

…seven years was also enough time for Akira to figure some things out about himself.

“It seemed like the sort of thing you’d enjoy,” Goro says. “Even if only as decoration.”

“Not much use for knife fighting in the psych department, yeah,” Akira says, a little morosely. 

“Could be a novel way to defend your thesis,” Goro muses. “Challenge the committee to a duel.”

Akira laughs, and doesn’t say, _the only person I ever want to duel is you._ Seven years without the Metaverse might’ve changed some things, but his views on romance got pretty permanently stuck at age seventeen, largely due to present company.

If Akira’s life was a tragedy, he might worry that that messed him up in some irrevocable way, ruined him for any other romance besides the one that might not even happen. But he’s fine with it, honestly. He’s seen Ryuji’s attempts at online dating. At least spending years pining after the assassin who tried to kill you multiple times doesn’t need a monthly subscription fee.

Akira puts the dagger down on the table and downs the rest of his drink.

“I’m gonna order another one, you want a refill?” he asks, eyeing Goro’s glass, which wasn’t exactly full to the brim to begin with and is now close to empty. 

“I suppose I may as well take advantage of the open bar,” Goro says. “The same, please. I’ll never understand how you can bear those sugary concoctions.”

“Sometimes people like to drink things that taste good,” Akira says, leaving before Goro can respond with his usual part of the years-old argument. _Only when the taste isn’t buried under syrup,_ maybe, or _Hard liquor does have a taste, it’s not my fault you don’t like it._

Akira’s grandparents have both been dead for a while now, but when he was little, he visited them sometimes. They were friendly enough, but what he remembers most is how they used to argue like they were reciting scenes from a play, pulling out the same lines every visit, minor complaints or philosophical differences or topics he wasn’t sure they actually disagreed about, back-and-forths that, his grandma told him once, they’d been doing for decades. At the time, he’d wondered why they would want to do that. If they were going to have the same conversations over and over for so long, why wouldn’t they talk about something they enjoyed?

Now he imagines having the same meaningless arguments with Goro decades from now, and he thinks he gets it.

At the bar, he examines the fancy cardstock menu of all the drinks on offer. Four years he’s been old enough to drink, and he still doesn’t know shit about most of them, despite Haru’s occasional wine tastings and Goro’s periodic insistence that he at least _try_ something before disparaging it. Still, the cocktail menu is extensive enough that it doesn’t matter. He orders something with chocolate syrup and maraschino cherries in it, and another scotch for Goro, and takes the drinks back to their table.

Predictably, Goro eyes Akira’s drink with distaste. “If you wanted dessert, we could’ve gone to a café,” he says.

“Yeah, but the music’s better here,” Akira says, and takes a sip. Cloyingly sweet. Perfect.

Goro, who seems to have finished the remainder of his first glass, takes the new one and rolls it a little in his hand, watches the golden liquid move around. “Have you ever actually been drunk before?” he asks.

“I’m not planning on ordering another, if you’re worried,” Akira says. His twentieth birthday party hadn’t gone well after the others left and he was alone with a dangerous combination of two leftover bottles of wine and three years of self-pity. He doesn’t care to repeat the experience.

“Just wondering,” Goro says lightly, taking a sip of his scotch.

“I’ve never seen _you_ drunk,” Akira says. “I bet you get all moody.”

Goro huffs. “What kind of drunk would you be, I wonder,” he muses. “The kind to drape yourself over whichever unfortunate friend is closest to you, perhaps?”

Akira takes note of the fact that Goro didn’t say Akira’s guess was wrong, and says, “Has Ann been telling you stories? Because if so she’s projecting.”

Goro takes another sip. “The quiet type, then?” he asks. “Though I suppose you could hardly tell the difference.”

Akira shakes his head and decides to go for the self-effacing truth. “I’ve only been actually drunk once, and I barely remember it,” he says. “Twentieth birthday. Everyone else already went home by that point, so they wouldn’t know either, sorry.”

Goro raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you were the type to get blackout drunk the moment it was legal for you to do so,” he says.

Akira rubs the back of his neck. “I was just in a weird mood that day,” he says.

The cosmic circumstances might’ve conspired a little. It’s not really Akira’s fault his birthday is in January.

Maybe Goro gets it; maybe he’s just willing to let the topic drop. Whatever the reason, Goro says, “Well, I’ve no plans to order another either. I think the first one’s already kicking in.”

Akira doesn’t know what drunk Goro is like, and doesn’t really want to, but tipsy Goro is a rare treat. “Remember Ann’s graduation party?” he asks. “Where you had one martini and fell asleep on my shoulder?”

“I spent most of the previous night doing paperwork, I had a good excuse,” Goro says, a little defensively.

“It was like when a cat falls asleep on you, I couldn’t move for the rest of the night.”

Which is half a lie, because over the years Akira’s gotten better at shoving Morgana off his lap if he has something that needs doing, but that night he hadn’t moved a single muscle, much to Ann’s vocal delight.

Goro sighs and takes another sip of scotch. “You don’t need to rub it in,” he says.

“I mean, it wasn’t _that_ bad, your hair’s really soft and you looked so peaceful,” Akira says, because ‘peaceful’ is probably safer than the word he was actually thinking, which is ‘cute’.

Goro gives him an unimpressed look. _“Everyone_ looks peaceful when they sleep,” he says. “That’s what sleep _does.”_

“Ryuji sleeps with his mouth wide open and keeps rolling over,” Akira says, remembering the Hawaii trip of ages past.

“But in a peaceful way, I’m sure,” Goro says drily.

When the three years ended, Akira was thinking about a lot of things, but one of them was how _comfortable_ Goro looked.

He wasn’t pretending to be anything for anyone. He hadn’t even known Akira would be there that day. In the moments before he noticed, Akira saw a Goro he’d really, genuinely never seen before. Relaxed, unguarded, just existing. A quiet bubble in a busy café.

The theatrics were almost immediate, but for those few seconds--Goro seemed truly at peace in a way Akira didn’t know he was capable of.

And now he’s just…like that. He still has moods, like anyone else does, but Akira doesn’t have to struggle to picture him genuinely happy anymore.

A few weeks after the reunion, Akira had a moment of panic where he wondered if something was happening again, if reality was rewriting itself or he’d fallen into a different world or some new cosmic machination was at work. It’s silly in retrospect, of course. Sometimes good things just happen. It turns out sometimes good things even happen to Goro, which apparently surprised Goro quite a bit too.

Akira looks at Goro and thinks, _I used to love you so much it hurt. Now I just love you. Which is less exciting, maybe, but it wasn’t fun, hurting. I love that I can look at you and not worry if you’re okay. I love that I can talk to you without having to peel back layers of subtext to figure out what you’re really saying. I love that I can see you smile because you want to. I love you. I love you. I love you._

The band is playing something slow and sweet, the singer’s smooth voice flowing like wine. With no other patrons in the club, there’s a decent amount of floor space no one’s going to be walking across.

Akira puts his drink down and grabs Goro’s hand. “Hey, let’s dance,” he says.

How high _is_ the alcohol content of these cocktails, anyway?

Goro’s eyes widen slightly, then a smirk slides across his face. “Do you even know how?” he says, as he lets Akira lead him onto a patch of bare floor.

“It’s not like it’s a waltz,” Akira says, in lieu of mentioning the one high school dance he spent most of holding his date’s hair back while she was throwing up in the gym restroom, or the time Ann dragged him clubbing with Shiho junior year and he ended up pretending to take an urgent phone call just to get away from the very attractive but very not-Goro strangers who kept trying to buy him a drink. “Why, do _you_ know?”

“I’ve some experience in it,” Goro says, which Akira mentally translates as _I had to do it a couple times and nobody directly told me I was bad at it._

“Ever the man of mystery,” Akira says laconically, and congratulates himself on having found a more or less socially acceptable reason to have his arm around Goro’s waist.

Somehow he ends up leading, though they’re not doing anything especially complicated. It’s more an excuse to be close, really, one arm around Goro’s waist and the other around his shoulders, faces scant inches apart. Still, the steps flow together better than he expected for a dance with zero forethought and no routine to speak of.

Though maybe that’s not surprising. Goro just seems to _get_ things, sometimes, if Akira starts them; and sometimes Akira does if Goro starts them. If it’s a remnant of the Metaverse, or just a _them_ thing, it’s not clear, but they’re not allowed to be on the same team in game nights anymore.

One step, and another. In the background, the singer’s voice rises and falls. 

“I suppose this doesn’t feel _completely_ like a high school slow dance,” Goro says with a slight smirk.

“No chaperones making sure there’s enough space between us, that’s for sure,” Akira says, largely without thinking.

There’s a fond look in Goro’s eyes. Akira’s pulse rises slightly. _There’s a vibe, right?_ he thinks. _Right now? This isn’t really a thing friends do. You know that, right?_

The temperature in the club is on the cool side, but Goro’s hand on his back feels like a brand.

Were their faces ever this close before?

“I like the outfit, by the way,” Akira says, keeping his voice steady. An inexplicable impulse makes him raise a hand to Goro’s tie, loosen the knot a little. His fingertips barely brush against Goro’s throat, skin warm against his.

Goro glances down and up at Akira’s own clothes. Akira’s pulse rises a little more. “I didn’t expect we’d be matching,” Goro says.

“It’s good, though,” Akira says. “Matching.” _Makes us look like a matched set. Complementary. Inseparable._

“I suppose,” Goro says, very softly.

Another step, another turn. If one of them moved forward just a little, their bodies would almost touch.

Akira lets his gaze fall and linger on Goro’s lips. 

_I’m giving you an opening,_ he thinks. _Take it. I know you see me differently from how the others do. I know there’s something here. If not now, when? Another year from now? Ten?_

He looks back up. Goro’s eyes meet his.

Their faces are so close.

“…you’re a pretty good dancer,” Akira murmurs.

“So’re you,” Goro murmurs back.

“Maybe we’ve been dancing for long enough, though. It’d be nice if we stopped.”

Akira’s voice and face are soft. So are Goro’s. Ever matching.

“…I’m not sure I know how,” Goro says, so softly.

A tiny surge of affection brings a crooked little grin to Akira’s lips. “Me neither,” he says. “We could figure it out together?”

Time seems to stand still. The music blurs into the background, leaving the two of them in an empty space, the only people in the world.

“…I’d like that,” Goro whispers, and in that moment he looks so achingly beautiful Akira has no choice but to kiss him.

The world doesn’t erupt in fireworks or swelling music. Everything’s just warm and soft, mouths fitting together like pieces in a puzzle, the echoing taste of scotch less unpleasant when he can lick it off Goro’s tongue. The few inches between their bodies close in unison, unclear which of them moved first.

One of Goro’s hands travels up to tangle in Akira’s hair. No longer gloved, not for years; Akira feels a tiny thrill at what that means. Goro’s other hand dips to the small of his back, pressing the two of them together. Akira’s arms wrap around Goro’s shoulders, and for a moment Akira dearly wishes the band would finish its set immediately and vacate the building, because it’s patently unfair they should probably keep their clothes on.

Goro moves to mouth at Akira’s jawline, down to his neck. A soft kiss turns harder, a nip against sensitive skin that leaves a small moan falling from Akira’s lips. They really shouldn’t do too much. They’ve still got the place for another hour, they should make the most out of Sojiro’s generous string-pulling. They should--the hand on Akira’s lower back skims down several inches and squeezes. 

Akira pulls together every rapidly-fraying thread of his self-control and manages to say, “Maybe we should get out of here?”

Goro huffs against his skin. “What, and deny the band a show?” he says wryly.

Akira glances up at the stage. The musicians are looking at their instruments. The singer appears to be looking at the ceiling.

What does the band think the two of them are, he wonders? A couple on an anniversary? Rich people throwing their cash around for an extra-special first date? Probably not a thief-turned-grad student and an assassin-turned-social worker who should’ve been kissing seven years ago. Akira’s relatively sure this place doesn’t get a lot of those.

“The floor seems uncomfortable and the booth seating is probably an awkward fit for two people,” Akira points out.

Goro gives a melodramatic sigh. “I suppose,” he says, and peels himself away from Akira with apparent great reluctance.

“And--just a moment,” Akira says, and darts back to the table. He grabs his cocktail and gulps the rest of it down in one drink, thankful he already ate the cherries.

Goro huffs, but does the same. “Getting the most of Sakura’s money?” he asks.

“That and it was a really good drink,” Akira says. And maybe if Goro has to taste it on Akira he’ll get used to it.

The outside air hits in a brisk burst, the music quickly fading away as they close the door behind them. Nighttime in Tokyo has no shortage of taxis; it feels like almost no time at all before they end up at Akira’s apartment.

The span of time does cool them down a little, though. As Akira locks the door behind them and sets the box with the dagger in it down on a counter, he says, “Not that I’m complaining, but this did kind of go from zero to sixty _really_ fast, huh.”

Goro’s already out of his shoes. “If you look at it another way, it took seven fucking years,” he says lightly. “Get over here, I want to stop thinking.”

Akira gets over there.

They don’t do a lot of thinking.

Akira’s bed is a great deal more comfortable than his old one at Leblanc, partly due to having a decent mattress and partly due to not being set up on old crates. Roomier, too. Call him an optimist.

Seven _years._ He’s almost not sure what to do. But they fit together, the way they always have. Kisses slow and sweet as flowing honey, caresses soft as velvet, sounds as beautiful as music. And warmth, all over, body and soul.

Afterwards, they lie together, not quite willing to separate back into two people.

Akira twirls one of the small braids around his finger, Goro’s ponytail having loosened some time prior. “So,” he says.

“So,” Goro echoes, a shade of amusement in his voice.

“Guess we’ve got some stuff to figure out,” Akira says. His head feels pleasantly fuzzy, alcohol and orgasm blending with contentment to produce a feeling like waking up late at night in a warm bed and drifting back to sleep.

Goro rests his forehead against Akira’s. “We’ll manage,” he says.

Akira smiles, and pushes back a lot of the hastier thoughts in his head, most of which have to do with ring sizes. “Seven years, huh,” he says.

The corner of Goro’s mouth quirks up. “Worth the wait?”

Akira leans in, brushes their lips together, pulls back. “Well, you still taste like scotch, so I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he says.

“Says the man who tastes like an overpriced sweets shop,” Goro says drily, and kisses him again.

Akira rests his head back on the pillow. “Ann’s gonna flip,” he says. “I’m pretty sure this one was her idea.”

“Her id--ah. Yes.” Goro gives a resigned smile. “I did wonder.”

“There are worse things in the world than having overly supportive friends,” Akira says. 

Goro makes a thoughtful noise. “I suppose I still find it hard to believe they _would_ be supportive of this,” he says.

“Some more than others,” Akira allows. “But after seeing me mope for three years, they probably just want me to be happy.”

There’s an edge in Goro’s expression. “Surely your life wasn’t meaningless without me,” he says. “You’re softhearted, but not so much that you’d hang your entire happiness on one person you didn’t even know very well.”

Akira exhales. “Nah, I was managing,” he says. “I just had bad days sometimes. And even those were getting less bad. You can live a perfectly happy life and still wish it was happi _er,_ you know?”

Goro’s expression relaxes. “Good to hear,” he says. 

Akira’s already heard the spiel on why Goro stayed away; he doesn’t need a reminder. And at this point, it doesn’t even matter. Goro’s here, he’s happy, Akira’s happy; life’s imperfections are more about the annoyances of the present than the demons of the past. Even if old wounds are still remembered, the hurt has largely faded.

“Oh,” Goro says, like an afterthought. “I forgot to say it. Happy birthday, by the way.”

Akira grins. “A pretty good one, all things considered.”

“Passable, I suppose,” Goro says drily, and closes his eyes. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “You might not have class until the afternoon tomorrow, but work doesn’t allow for lazy mornings.”

Akira yawns. “Yeah,” he says, feeling the call of sleep tug at his eyelids. He slides an arm around Goro’s shoulder, snuggles closer, just because he can. “G’night, Goro.”

“Goodnight.”

As Akira’s eyes drift closed, he wonders what the acceptable number of days would be before bringing up possible recreational uses for the dagger.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [Tumblr](http://www.futuresoon.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/futuresoonest).


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